


Unexpected Gifts

by starbird1



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2015-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-03 18:46:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2863712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starbird1/pseuds/starbird1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Forced marriage. Possible shades of dub com in future chapter(s). Written for SquidProQuo for the holiday exchange on the sansa_sandor LJ comm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [squidproquo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/squidproquo/gifts).



“No!” Ned Stark yelled. “Send me to the Wall instead!”

 

Joffrey laughed. “I’d take your head if my mother hadn’t begged so prettily for you to keep it, but then you wouldn’t be able to see the wedding, would you?” A sneer oozed across the boy king’s smug face.

 

“My daughter has done nothing wrong. If you must issue a punishment, issue it to me.”

 

“No!” All traces of humor evaporated from Joffrey’s face. “Lady Sansa will marry my dog and that’s an end of it. Complain again and I’ll have your head right after the ceremony.”

 

“And what have I done to warrant marriage to a traitor’s daughter, your grace?” the Hound rumbled from behind the throne.

 

Joffrey stood and looked at his sworn shield. He smirked. “Consider it a gift. She was good enough for me once. She’s pretty enough still. You should thank me for giving you an obedient wife. I think she’s been afraid of you since she first saw you at Winterfell.” With that he strode out of the throne room, leaving Ned Stark to harness his anguish, Sansa Stark to bite back her fear and nausea, and Sandor Clegane to stare openly at his betrothed and her father.

 

*

 

“Sansa, I can’t allow you to go through with this . . . to endure . . .” Ned shook his head in frustration.

 

“I don’t see that we have a choice. Joffrey will kill you if I don’t marry the Hound.”

 

“The man is little more than a beast with a taste for blood. To have you under his power is unthinkable.” Ned paced back and forth. “I’ll talk to Cersei. If I can convince her to release you and Arya -”

 

“No! She’s already saved your head. It’s best not to draw her notice,” Sansa urged. The queen was as changeable as her son. Tractability was their best course; Sansa was sure of it.

 

“Sansa,” her father somehow grew even paler, “do you not understand what a marriage to Sandor Clegane would mean? Don’t fool yourself into thinking he’d spare you or be gentle with you.”

 

“Please.” Sansa could hardly bare to think about it let alone discuss the inevitable event with her father. “Please do not believe I would rather see you dead.”

 

“You shouldn’t have to do this. The boy has no honor, no sense of honor -” And on it went.

 

*

 

Sansa, her father, and Arya were allowed to wander the Red Keep but were not permitted to leave its walls. They were given a suite of rooms, two bedrooms and an adjoining solar, and it seemed one or more of the gold cloaks were always in the corridor outside their door.

 

A few weeks went by since Joffrey had determined Sansa must marry Sandor Clegane and nothing had happened. Clegane did not speak to Sansa any more than he had done before, and, when he did, it was usually only while fulfilling King Joffrey’s orders. He seemed to stare at her more often but, as she was an object of interest to the entire court, this was hardly noteworthy. Sansa and her father hoped that maybe the betrothal had just been an idle threat, forgotten in the chaos of Joffrey’s as yet brief but bloodsoaked reign.

 

Still, it was public knowledge. Her erstwhile friend, Margaery Tyrell, had said what a shame it was while her cousins grinned gleefully behind her but Sansa only bobbed a curtsy in acknowledgement and walked on. One night, when Clegane had escorted her back to her family’s rooms, she’d very nearly asked him his feelings about their betrothal but, upon seeing him looking directly at her, she faltered, bid him good night, and shut the door with haste.

 

*

 

“Lady Sansa.” The Hound’s voice cut through the door after three swift knocks.

 

Sansa, Ned, and Arya exchanged looks. Clegane’s arrival was not expected but neither was it unusual. His voice betrayed nothing amiss yet all three of them grew tense at the raspy greeting.

 

Sansa rose and answered the door. The Hound dumped a gown into her arms. “We’re to be wed tomorrow.”

 

“Tomorrow?!”

 

“Yes, tomorrow.”

 

Sansa’s mouth fell open. She looked down at the heap of fabric in her arms. The flesh-colored material had blotches of rust red that Sansa supposed were to look like flowers. It was the ugliest gown she’d ever laid eyes upon and it smelled like a woman of ill repute.

 

“Why the sudden urgency, Clegane?” Ned asked with a frown as he approached the door.

 

Clegane looked at him for a moment before responding. “The young wolf,” he mocked, “has won another victory. It sits ill with the king.”

 

“So?” Sansa blurted out. “Robb has won every battle he’s undertaken.”

 

“Not with Stannis at his side.”

 

“What?” the Starks asked in unison.

 

Clegane looked up and down the corridor. “It seems your boy and Stannis have entered into a bargain. They aim to take King’s Landing together, rid themselves of Joffrey and Cersei, and then settle their differences later.”

 

“Stannis will never let Robb continue his campaign for northern independence,” Ned said, mostly to himself. “Foolish alliance . . .”

 

Sansa looked up from the gown to take in her future husband. He was as hulking and intimidating as always, though she was surprised by what she thought sounded like a note of grudging respect in his voice when talking about Robb.

 

Clegane turned and saw her staring. “You’re to wear that,” he said as though she were simple.

 

“It’s ugly.”

 

The Hound threw back his head and unleashed his snarling laugh. “You think Joffrey cares to please you?”

 

Sansa looked down to hide the tears suddenly pricking her eyes. She blinked them away. A surge of anger, at his laughter, at Joffrey, at her whole miserable situation, rose up within her. “I don’t want to marry you,” she said, hoping to hurt him at least a little.

 

“Feel free to tell the septon that tomorrow, girl. See where it gets you.”

 

He turned to go but Sansa followed him out into the corridor, shutting the door behind her. “Do you want to marry me?”

 

“A daughter of the north asking for my hand? Bit unusual but I accept.”

 

“I wasn’t proposing, you . . .” Sansa bit her tongue.

 

“Joffrey promised me an obedient wife,” the Hound replied with a look of warning.

 

Sansa bit her tongue again. The last thing she needed was to raise the ire of both the king and the Hound. “Why haven’t you objected? Surely you don’t want to marry me any more than I want to marry you.”

 

“I serve the king.”

 

Sansa said nothing. For some reason that seemed to make him go on.

 

“It’ll never be less trouble for me to gain a wife than now.”

 

A spark of hope lit in Sansa’s heart. “If you want to marry, why not do so before you’re saddled with me?”

 

His grey eyes roamed over her. “You’ll do.” With that he turned and left.

 

Deflated, Sansa returned to her family’s chambers with the travesty that was her wedding gown. Lacking anything else to do, she tried it on. It was several inches too short in the hem and was so tight across the bodice that her breasts spilled forth in a most provocative manner. The flesh-colored fabric made her look nude and the garish red flowers were placed to suggest that they were all she was wearing. There was no question where Joffrey had acquired the gown.

 

“You look like you’ve bled to death,” Arya commented.

 

Sansa’s shoulders sagged. She could only hope her cloak would cover the entire thing.

 

*

 

The next morning there was a knock on the door. Arya opened it. “Sansa, it must be for you.”

 

Sansa raised gloomy eyes from her toasted bread and wondered what further humiliation Joffrey had in store for her. She’d done what she could to alter the dress, but it wasn’t much. Arya dragged in a large package. Sansa pulled off the wrapping. Inside was a simple gown of white, a black sash at the waist. She frowned at it.

 

“Sandor Clegane must have sent it,” Arya said.

 

“Why would he do that?”

 

Arya shrugged.

 

*

 

Too soon, Joffrey himself came to escort Sansa to the sept.

 

“I’m her father, your grace,” Ned all but spat. “I’ll escort her.”

 

Joffrey turned a malevolent eye towards him. “As king, I’m father to the whole realm and I’ll dispose of my subjects as I wish. You can follow behind and look at this.” He snapped open Sansa’s bridal cloak. Heralded on the back was a direwolf’s head. Instead of looking bravely forward, the animal’s head tilted down in defeat, a collar and chain having been stitched around the neck. Sansa stiffened as Joffrey laughed. “Like it, Stark?”

 

Before her father could reply, she said, “We should be off,” and moved toward the door, fastening the cloak around her as she went. Joffrey’s cruelty was no surprise. She only hoped Robb would defeat him sooner rather than later. And since Joffrey was too amused by his own jape, he hadn’t taken notice of the white gown she was wearing.

 

They arrived at the sept and were greeted by the queen regent. She took in the modified sigil on Sansa’s cloak. Her mouth dropped open slightly and she cast a look at her son but pressed her lips together and said not a word. Sansa felt sick when Joffrey offered his arm. She could not believe she’d once dreamt of marrying him. Before she could process the blur of faces lining the aisle, she was at the front of the sept and facing Sandor Clegane, only dimly aware of the congregation’s reaction to the shamed direwolf.

 

The septon read some nonsense about love, fidelity, and other noble sentiments that had no connection to her or Clegane so Sansa spent the time trying to remain calm. She chanced a look at Clegane and found him looking back at her, his face creased with annoyance. Why should he be annoyed? He, at least, wanted to get married, even if it wasn’t to me.

 

Suddenly Clegane’s big hands were at her throat. His fingers seemed unable to work the brooch fastening the offensive cloak and, after a brief struggle, he simply grabbed the two ends of the fabric and ripped them apart before casting the whole thing onto the floor next to the goggle-eyed septon. Sansa’s heart suddenly jolted back into motion, startling her and causing her to lean away from the man who was at that moment becoming her husband. Clegane fanned his black and yellow cloak around her and used it to pull her closer. Before she knew it, the septon had said a few more words and Clegane’s fire-ravaged face was closing in. Sansa blinked, wanted to shake herself awake, but the mass of charred and twisted flesh, red and oozing, was upon her. She squeezed her eyes shut with a whimper as his lips claimed hers. It was mercifully brief and then she was swept back up the aisle.

 

Had she spoken any vows? She supposed she must have. Sansa sat at her wedding feast and wondered how she could have gotten married and yet missed most of the ceremony. Clegane was steadily pouring wine down his greedy gullet but otherwise ignored her. Sansa looked down the table to where her father was seated. He was being ignored as well, untouchable thanks to the taint of treason. Arya was nowhere to be seen. The crowd, nearly all of whom she recognized, seemed split into thirds. One third glanced at her with pity, another third seemed amused and mocking, and the last third appeared to care for nothing at all but the next course and a refill of their cups. Joffrey spent most of the evening making himself agreeable to Margaery Tyrell. He’d just started to call for the bedding when Clegane suddenly lurched to his feet. He weaved unsteadily and then yanked Sansa from her chair.  “The bedding. About time,” he slurred as he hoisted Sansa over his shoulder, her face flaming with mortification.

 

“Hey! We’re supposed to strip her!” Joffrey called, inciting others to do the same.

 

Sansa kept her head down, the blood rushing to her skull doing little to drown out the crowd’s lewd suggestions. The Hound staggered and crashed into a pillar.

 

“You can’t fuck her if she’s dead, Clegane!” some half-wit called.

 

“Wouldn’t stop you, Johnson!” another called back.

 

Waves of laughter followed as Clegane got his bearings again and stumbled and swerved toward the staircase. He began to climb, reversed his steps, grabbed a flagon off a nearby table, clipped his elbow against the wall, and disappeared up the stairs, his bride hanging like a pelt over his shoulder. A few drunken revelers made to follow them, one man grabbing at Sansa’s legs. Her squeal drew an angry “bugger off!” from the Hound and then they were alone.

 

“Put me down,” she said. “Please,” she added when he didn’t respond.

 

“We’re not there yet.”

 

Sansa tried to wiggle out of his grip. “Do you want to fall and break your bloody neck on the steps? No? Then stop moving.” His shoulder was digging into her stomach but she stilled. Long minutes later a door swung open and she was dropped onto a bed.

 

The Hound threw his head back and shook the hair out of his eyes. He studied Sansa’s face. All of a sudden a truth hit her. After leaving the hall, Clegane’s steps had been sure and steady. “You’re not drunk,” she accused.

 

A sardonic glint lit his eye. “No more than usual.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: there is a little non-con action in the first half of this chapter.

Sansa turned away from the Hound but then, afraid he’d pounce on her without warning, she turned back. He hadn’t moved and continued to gaze down at her. “You wore the dress,” he said at length.

 

“What? Oh, yes. Thank you. The other one was . . .”

 

“For a whore?”

 

“Unsuitable.”

 

Clegane smirked.

 

Sansa didn’t like that look on him, didn’t like the confidence behind it at all. “Is this your room?” she asked, hoping to distract him.

 

“No.”

 

“Then whose -”

 

“It’s _our_ room.”

 

“Where are my things?” She’d been forced to pack a trunk but a quick look around told her it wasn’t there. She vaguely apprehended that a number of candles had been lit throughout the room.

 

“I told them to leave it until tomorrow.”

 

His audacity irked her. “Then what am I supposed to wear?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

“Nothing? How dare you presume -”

 

“You’d be wearing nothing right now if Joffrey had had his way. Drop your fucking fancy airs. I don’t have to remind you that you’re a Clegane now.”

 

It was too much. She knew it would eventually come to this but he didn't have to be so mean about it. Hot tears stung Sansa’s eyes and, before she knew it, she was sobbing fit to break a rib.

 

The Hound turned his back and walked to the wash basin. He stripped off his tunic and cleaned himself up. He snuffed out several of the candles before turning back to her. With a glare, he walked around to the far side of the bed, sat, and pulled off his boots. He rose briefly to remove his breeches and then fell heavily back on the straw-filled mattress.

 

Sansa stood up and walked to the far side of the small room. It might as well have been a cage for all she could escape it. She blotted her eyes with the hems of her sleeves.                                   

 

“Are you that afraid of me, girl?”

 

“You know your reputation.”

 

“My reputation?” he laughed.

 

“Yes, your reputation,” she spat, irritated by his laughter. “It’s horrible! You drink, you gamble, you keep uncertain company. You’re a heartless killer whose joy in savagery is second only to your ferocity. You like to slaughter innocents and -” The import of what she was saying suddenly dawned on Sansa and the unamused expression on Clegane’s face choked off her words midstream. She was at this man’s mercy and she’d run on like she was scolding a stable boy. Her throat dried up and she thought she might retch.

 

“Yet such a man sent you a gown so you wouldn’t have to look like a common whore on your wedding day.”

 

In spite of herself, Sansa was shamed by her discourteous behavior. She couldn’t bring herself to speak.

 

“Take it off.”

 

“What?”

 

“Take it off.”

 

“No.”

 

“Let me see what I got for my trouble. Is there a soft body to go with that sharp tongue?”

 

Sansa wouldn’t answer.

 

Clegane rose from the bed. Sansa hugged herself and braced for whatever was to come.

 

He walked around the room and blew out the rest of the candles. The only light was now coming from the weak rays of a dying moon. “Take it off,” he said again. “You can’t sleep in it anyway.” The bed creaked under his weight.

 

For a long moment, Sansa didn’t move. Even when her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she couldn’t see if the Hound was looking at her. _He’s your husband now_ , she reminded herself. Still, the thought of . . . no, she could never accept it. Acceptance was not her choice, however. Tolerance was her only option. _This is keeping Father alive_ , she thought instead, reaching behind her to unknot the sash at her waist.

 

Removing the dress without help was difficult. The very late hour and the strain of the day made her fingers feel thick and clumsy. _Maybe he’s asleep._ She tried to lay the dress carefully over a nearby chair but she heard the soft swish of the material as it slipped into a pile. Just the small issue of a wrinkled gown was nearly enough to set her crying again.

 

Sansa crept under the covers and lay rigidly on the very edge of the bed. Clegane turned on his side and his sheer bulk caused her to roll toward him. Sansa clutched the edge of the mattress and held herself away. A warm, heavy hand found her shoulder. She tensed and moved away from it but it didn’t leave her. It slid down her arm leaving a trail of goosebumps behind. The hand dropped to her waist and curved around her hip. Sansa squeezed her eyes shut and prayed to the Maiden. The hand left her.

 

“Look at me,” the Hound rasped quietly.

 

Sansa shook her head. His hand gripped her shoulder again and pulled her on to her back. He pinched her chin between his fingers, forcing her to meet his gaze. “We’re married now. You’d better get used to the idea.” He pressed his lips against hers and Sansa pushed her head back into the mattress in an effort to get away.

 

The Hound pulled back and looked at her for a long, uncomfortable moment. “Were you hoping for a Loras Tyrell? One of the pretty knights? Or maybe you've been stringing along a gaggle of noblemen's sons under Joffrey’s nose.”

 

“I've done nothing of the kind.”

 

“Don’t lie to me. If there's someone you've been -"

 

“I didn’t want to marry you!” What was so hard to understand?

 

“If there was someone else, that ends now, little bird. It’s bad enough your father is a traitor. I won’t have my wife giving me horns.”

 

 _How dare he?!_ “I’ll be as faithful as you are.” An empty threat, but what did he know?

 

The chilly silence emanating from his side of the bed told Sansa loud and clear that he didn’t like her answer. _Well, that’s just too bad_ , she thought.

 

“You’ll be faithful -”

 

“And you’ll stop going to brothels?” she said archly.

 

“Give me a reason not to . . .” His hand returned to her hip.

 

She shook it off. “I don’t _want_ -” she began heatedly.

 

“I’m not my brother, little bird,” he said, a dark tone coloring his voice. “You’ll be safe enough with me.”

 

Sansa didn’t know what to say to that so she said nothing. After a moment he rolled on to his back and they both simmered in silence for what felt like the rest of the night.

 

*

 

The next morning, the Hound dressed and summoned a page. “Bring my wife’s trunk,” he told the boy.

 

While they waited, Sansa wrapped herself in a sheet so Clegane couldn’t get a look at her. _Sheets!_ “Won’t Joffrey want to see proof that you . . . that we . . . ?”                                   

 

Clegane narrowed his eyes. “I let you keep your honor and now you want proof that I didn’t?”

 

“A knight would slash his palm and let the blood drip on the bedding.” That’s how it always seemed to go in the stories.

 

“I’m no knight.”

 

“But -”

 

“But nothing. No one’s going to assume my wife is a maid and no one’s checking my damned sheets. Just look miserable. Your mother taught you how, no doubt.”

 

He ignored her affronted expression.

 

Her trunk arrived in short order, to Sansa’s great relief. “Turn around,” she directed her husband.

 

Clegane favored her with a look but complied. Sansa dressed as quickly as she could, stealing glances over her shoulder to make sure he was true to his word. “Thank you,” she said when she was done.

 

She sat down at the dressing table and began to brush out her hair. The Hound sat on the bed and stared at her, watching the brush move through the long length of her auburn waves, taking in the exposed skin of her neck. He looked appreciative, which made Sansa more uncomfortable than any crude comment he could have made.

 

“Are you hungry?” she asked to break the tension.

 

“Starved.”

 

If Sansa had thought Clegane would offer her his arm, she was mistaken. He followed along behind her, forcing her to lob pleasantries over her shoulder that he didn’t deign to return. When they crossed paths with one of the few noblemen who’d continued to be kind to Sansa after her father's removal as Hand, Sansa gave him a cheerful ‘good morning,’ and his eyes widened in shock. Sansa pressed her lips together and nodded at his returned greeting. The Hound chuckled as the man continued on his way. “Go ahead, little bird. Let everyone think you were begging for it last night.”

 

“Stop it,” she admonished.

 

When they reached the main hall, Sansa bit her tongue to try to draw tears to her eyes but then stopped. The Hound had not abused her and it seemed unkind to give the impression that he had. She arranged her features in a placid expression and entered the hall at Clegane’s side. Cat calls, whistles, some laughter, and pockets of stony silence heralded their arrival, which seemed to throw the mood of the room off balance. Out of habit, Sansa headed for the front. A large hand at her elbow redirected her steps. “The Cleganes don’t merit seats at the dais, little bird.”

 

For the first time since her father’s accusation as a traitor, Sansa felt her social status drop with a thud. They found seats among some men-at-arms, all of whom gawked at her. Clegane made conversation with them while Sansa nibbled at her food without tasting it. The men’s eyes slid over to her constantly and she tried to look politely attentive while feeling woefully out of place. Just as she was about to excuse herself, the doors opened, Joffrey was announced, and benches scraped against the floor as the entire room stood.

 

The king looked surly. Dark circles ringed his eyes and he looked a little green under his paler-than-usual skin. _I hope his head is clanging like the bells at Baelor’s_ , Sansa thought. To her horror, Joffrey seemed to divine their presence even through the thick crowd. He gave irritated flicks of his hand to well-wishers and others who would speak with him and snapped, “Dog!” when he was closer to them. The crowd parted, sat, and tentatively continued to break its fast.

 

“Your grace,” Clegane said evenly.

 

Joffrey squinted up at him. “Thank you.”

 

Clegane furrowed his brow. “For what?”

 

Joffrey’s lip curled. “ _You_ are to say ‘thank you’ to _me_ , dog. I could have taken her maidenhead,” he gestured toward Sansa, “but I left it for you. Now what do you say?”

 

“Thank you, your grace.”

 

Sansa was disgusted but kept her expression neutral and her eyes on the floor.

 

“That’s better. And _you_ ," he rounded on her, "what do _you_ have to say?”

 

“Thank you, your grace,” Sansa recited, hoping the king’s foul mood would be appeased through obedience.

 

“You’re thanking me for letting my dog have at you?” he laughed. “You really are as stupid as Mother says.”

 

Sansa’s heart clenched. What was the right thing to say? She decided on silence.

 

“Where is your father?" Joffrey demanded, casting a malevolent eye over a roomful of people suddenly very interested in their trenchers.

 

Sansa's eyes darted around. _What does he want with Father?_ "He's not here, your grace," she said, hoping it was true.

 

Joffrey sneered but he seemed to decide that she was not being flippant. “Did he enjoy the wedding yesterday?”

 

“I don’t believe so, your grace.”

 

With a nasty little laugh, the king said, “Good,” and sauntered off to make someone else miserable.

 

Sansa and Sandor left the hall shortly thereafter, Sansa’s mind in a spin. Her knees almost buckled when Clegane’s heavy hand landed on her shoulder. “Don’t worry about Joffrey, girl.”

 

“I’m not,” she lied.

 

He snorted and Sansa knew he saw right through her. To her relief, though, he didn’t press the matter.

 

*

 

The days after her wedding were uncomfortable for Sansa. Clegane had touched her face once and stroked her hair while she resolutely kept her back to him in bed, but, unpleasant as that was, it was the strain of wondering when he’d finally lose patience with her that was most trying.

 

She went to visit her family and her father crushed her against him in a hug so tight she couldn’t bring herself to tell him that she was still a maiden lest it only prolong his anxiety. “I’m fine,” was all she would say.

 

“Thank the gods,” he murmured over and over into her hair.

 

Sansa changed the subject to general matters and courtly gossip until her father seemed to relax. A little while later, Arya came in. “Oh. You’re here. That’s good. Let’s take a walk.”

 

Sansa agreed as nonchalantly as she could, for her father’s sake, but was instantly alert. She and Arya had never just taken a walk. Her suspicions were confirmed almost immediately when her sister pressed a small glass bottle into her palm.

 

“Don’t ask where I got it.”

                                 

Sansa raised the vial to eye-level and peered at the liquid inside. “What is it?”

                                 

“Poison. Enough to take down the Hound.”

                                 

“Arya!”

                              

Her sister looked shocked. “You don’t _want_ it?”

                                 

“I don’t want to _kill_ him!”

                                 

“You _won’t_ , really. It’ll just look like he died in his sleep. He drinks like a fish anyway. No one would suspect you.”  
                                 

“No. I’m not killing anyone. He hasn’t done anything to deserve it,” Sansa said, not entirely believing it.  
                                 

“Well, keep it in case you change your mind one day.”

                 

“Absolutely not. What would Joffrey or Queen Cersei think? Do you have any idea what they would do if they found this on either one of us? They'd accuse us of making an attempt on the king's life.”

 

Arya clearly had not considered this.  
                                 

“I don’t know where you got this but I hope your source was discreet.”  
                                 

“They thought I was a boy.”

 

“Good. Don’t go there again.”

 

Arya looked ready to argue so Sansa added, “But it was very nice of you to think of me. Sandor Clegane has been . . . tolerable.”  
                                 

Arya gave her a dubious look. “If you say so.”

  
“I say so.”


	3. Chapter 3

It was an odd thing, being Lady Clegane. Sansa knew she was the butt of many a joke being told around the court but only the king dared to mock her openly. She shed the tears she knew he wanted to see but she would not speak ill of the Hound. Ladies of the court showed false concern for her well being, which she ignored, while the men made lewd innuendos, which she silenced with a quiet, “My husband does not care for such talk.” Whether she’d wanted to marry Clegane or not no longer mattered. He was her husband and Sansa felt a kind of loyalty to him or, at least, took some pride in being a good wife.

 

A good wife but not a dutiful one. The Hound suddenly kept regular hours and would arrive in their room in the early evening. He always smelled of wine but he never seemed very drunk. She tried to wait him out, sewing long into the night by the window, but he was always awake when she finally dragged herself into bed. He would talk to her and Sansa would make polite conversation back, always wondering if tonight was to be the night. It never was. He asked about her day and what she had done. There weren’t many variations on the theme: sewing, visiting her father and Arya, reading. Now and again she’d visit the library or take a walk. It was dreadfully monotonous. She didn't understand why he bothered asking and assumed he was just checking up on her.

 

For his part, Clegane told her what was happening around the Keep and the city, displaying a wicked sense of humor, disdain for just about everybody, and a surprisingly keen insight into the motivations of others. Sansa wondered why he was telling her anything at all but then it dawned on her that he probably didn’t have anyone else to talk to, surly as he generally was. She also realized that he was displaying a certain degree of trust in her; that or he was just reckless in sharing his opinions, but she felt that trust was more likely the cause. He was not the company she would have chosen but he certainly wasn’t boring. He listened to her and talking with him was easy enough to bear.

 

The part of their marriage she was less pleased with was Clegane's utter lack of modesty. He’d lumber across their room naked as his nameday. Sansa averted her eyes but there was just so _much_ of him. He never said anything or tried to draw her notice but he and his manhood were there nonetheless. At first, Sansa wondered if he was attempting some kind of lame seduction but over time she realized he simply did not care if she saw him naked. He didn’t seem to harbor any particular pride about his body, nor did he go to any lengths to show off what might have been considered assets by an interested woman. Undress, bathe, dress, repeat.

 

Despite Clegane's comfort, Sansa never dressed or undressed in his presence. The maid she was allowed to maintain seemed afraid of Sansa's husband and would hurry with laces and hairpins if the Hound returned while she was still there. Sansa was quietly grateful for this as it spared her the need to speed the girl along so Sansa’s modesty would be preserved.

 

It wasn’t long before they fell into a routine. Clegane fulfilled his duties during the day and returned to Sansa at night. Sansa filled the hours, somehow, and prayed for an escape.

 

One day, as Clegane was scrubbing his hair in the wash basin, he said, “Your brother is approaching King’s Landing.”

 

Sansa’s head snapped up from her sewing. “Truly?”

 

Clegane turned slightly toward her, the curve of his waist showing deep cuts where his abdominals undulated between the smooth lengths of his sides. “Yes.”

 

Sansa stared at him, disbelieving yet not wholly unaware of the display of musculature he presented. Still, her mind was already galloping north along the kingsroad. "Is he . . . is he going to attack?"

 

Clegane toweled off his head as he answered. "That or try to draw Joffrey outside the walls."

 

Sansa nodded vaguely. How could she get to him? How could she, Arya, and her father make it to Robb's camp together? If Robb attacked, it would be chaos but they still must try to find him. She'd talk to her father and sister first thing tomorrow. If they couldn't escape together, they should at least try to get out of the city individually. The thought of running through war-torn streets terrified her. If she didn't make it and was returned to Joffrey . . . She brought her hand to her throat.

 

"You look like you're hatching a plan," the Hound observed as he dropped the towel next to the basin.

 

Sansa’s eye fell on the towel and, as she said, “Of course I’m not,” Clegane picked it up and folded it.

 

"Do you think I'm as easy to fool as Joffrey?"

 

Sansa looked up at him. "No, I don't." Clegane had proved more intelligent than she'd originally anticipated, and Joffrey less.

 

“Do you think I don’t know that you’d like nothing more than to return to Winterfell?”

 

“I -” Sansa felt caught. “I’m a loyal subject.”

 

“You’re a terrible liar.” He moved to the bed and stretched out on it with a yawn.

 

“I’m not terrible.”

 

“No one thinks they are, especially the worst ones.”

 

Sansa debated her next question but she knew, at least, that Clegane would answer honestly. “Do you think you’re terrible?”

 

“You think I am, though I’ve given you no cause.”

 

It was true, and acknowledging it made Sansa uncomfortable. She countered with, “You don’t think very much of me, either. You say I just chirp empty courtesies. I don’t know why you married me. Surely you could have talked Joffrey out of it.”

 

“I couldn’t have and didn’t want to.”

 

Sansa put down her sewing and stared at him. “Why ever not?”

 

“Pretty little thing like you? Why wouldn’t I want to have you in my bed night after night?”

 

Sansa gave an unladylike snort. “That hasn’t worked out so well for you, has it?”

 

“You haven’t flown away yet.”

 

“What makes you think I won’t?”

 

“You won’t.”

 

“I could.”  
  


“Your sister could. Not you.”

 

Sansa knew that was probably true but she didn’t like that he knew it. “You barely know me.”

 

“I know you were born and bred to please, to say and do everything that a proper little lady should. Except be a willing wife, it turns out.”

 

“I’ve been faithful.”

 

“So have I. You should be pleased. ”

 

“I’m sure you could have made someone else quite happy.”

 

“But not you?”

 

“Our situation is unusual.”

 

“And how’s that?”

 

“Well, neither of us had a say -”

 

“Don’t tell me you were consulted when you were betrothed to Joffrey because you weren’t.”

 

“No, but -”

 

“But he would have batted you around like a cat with a mouse until you were ruined and then he would have found a new plaything. I’ve left you alone and you still act like I’ve got greyscale.”

 

“Don’t exaggerate. You’ve touched me.”

 

“Not like I’ve wanted to. Not like a husband should be able to touch his wife.”

 

“Not all wives want to be touched.”

 

“You don’t know what you’re missing.”

 

“I’d never have pegged you for a braggart.”

 

“Don’t pretend to misunderstand me.”

 

“I’m not.”

 

“What do you want, then? Flattery? A bunch of lies? You won’t get lies from me, girl.”

 

“I don’t want lies.” Sansa wasn’t quite sure what she wanted anymore. She’d always imagined her husband to be handsome and gallant, someone she’d admire, trust, and rely upon to care about her always. What she had was hard to reconcile with that ideal. Clegane had given her no reason not to trust him but he was still a Lannister man. He was rough and angry and far from handsome.

 

“Just a pretty face and blond hair? You won’t get that from me, either.”

 

“You think I’m shallow.”

 

“I think you’re young and pretty and too trusting and naive. I think your blood could run hot if you’d let it but that doesn't answer the question.”

 

Sansa let her words spill out. Maybe he’d finally see how ridiculous it was to expect her to see him as her true husband. “I want someone who cares about me. Who talks to me and listens to me and lets me help him with his problems. I want my husband to be an honorable man who will make me and our children proud. He should be trustworthy, considerate, and kind. And he should like to dance.”

 

“Joffrey likes to dance.”

 

“Don’t mock me. I didn’t have the advantage of knowing him as you did when he first came to Winterfell.”

 

“Fair enough.”

 

Sansa was still ruffled. “And what about you? What do you want in a wife?”

 

“Willingness.”

 

“That’s all?”

 

“That’s enough. Not many women will look past this face unless there’s coin involved.”

 

“I’m very sorry -”

 

“I don’t want your pity.”

 

“You don’t want anything but willingness?”

 

“Second sons of minor houses take what they can get.”

 

“Is that what you were doing when you married me?”

 

The Hound laughed. “No.”

 

“You knew I wouldn’t be willing.”

 

“Aye, that I knew.”

 

“Then why -” A new thought struck Sansa. “You liked me before then.”

 

The corner of his mouth twitched. “You kept your mouth shut about my scars.”

 

Sansa ignored that. She’d been in King’s Landing long enough to know an evasion when she heard one. Still, the fact that the Hound had harbored any kind of tenderness toward her both shocked her and softened her heart a little.

 

"What are you doing tomorrow?" Clegane asked.

 

Sansa wondered if he was teasing her. "The same things I do every day."

 

"I'm going to the armorer's tomorrow. You can come with me."

 

"I'm not allowed."

 

The Hound scoffed at her protest that she couldn’t leave the confines of the Red Keep and took her into the city the next morning. As he placed his order for new vambraces, an ancient woman taking in the sun squinted at Sansa and picked her way over to her side. “Lovely day,” she said, seeing if Sansa would bite.

 

“Quite lovely,” Sansa replied, her courtesies too well ingrained to ignore someone even when she’d rather not talk to them.

 

“What’s your name, dear?”

 

“Sansa St- Clegane.”

 

“What, dearie?” the woman asked loudly, clutching at Sansa’s wrist to pull Sansa closer to her ear.

 

“Sansa Clegane,” Sansa was forced to say in a loud voice. Several people, including her husband, turned to look at her.

 

"Clegane?" the crone asked, her mind all but visibly sorting through people known to her. "The big fellows?"

 

"Uh," Sansa's eyes went to Sandor who dwarfed everyone in the immediate area. "Yes."

 

The woman followed Sansa's gaze. "Oh my, you poor thing. And you so pretty. Tsk."

 

Sansa felt a twinge of pity for Sandor. "He's . . . a formidable man."

 

The woman patted Sansa's hand sympathetically. "You look just like that pretty girl who was to marry the king. Oh, now _there's_ a handsome boy. Golden just like his lovely mother."

 

Sansa fought to keep her distaste from showing on her face. "As you say."

 

"Oh, I say, I say. Too bad the girl's father turned traitor. Such beautiful babies they would have made."

 

Suppressing a shudder, Sansa just nodded. Her eyes found Clegane again and watched as he dealt with the armorer. He spoke plainly and didn’t use his size, reputation, or connection with the king to intimidate the man.

 

The woman went on about the favorable looks of the Baratheon children and Sansa couldn't help but feel relieved when Sandor returned to her side. The woman gave an eek! and tottered so that she nearly lost her footing. Sansa took her arm and steadied her. "Formidable indeed," the woman said under her breath before picking her way along the Street of Steel.

 

"What did she want?" Clegane asked.

 

"Just to talk," Sansa said.

 

"Old women," he muttered.

 

While Clegane retrieved his horse, Sansa turned her face to the sun, closed her eyes to enjoy the warmth on her face, and took a deep breath. It was beyond wonderful to be outside the Keep's walls. She wished she could lose herself in the hustle and bustle of the city's streets and be swept past the gates. She would run and run and run until her lungs burst if she could only get to Robb.

 

"Are you ready to go back?"

 

His voice was like a splash of cold rain.

 

"Do we have to go back? I mean, right now?"

 

Clegane looked down at her. "Is there somewhere you want to go?"

 

Sansa's shoulders slumped. She couldn't get anywhere she wanted to go.

 

Clegane gave a small nod. "I'll show you something."

 

"What?"

 

He picked her up and put her in the saddle before positioning himself behind her and gently urging Stranger into the street. She almost didn't hear him when he said, "I'll show you where your brother is."

 

Sansa's spine straightened. Was this a trap? "I already know he's north of the city," she answered carefully.

 

Clegane ignored her and quietly began to describe the layout of the city, noting landmarks to help Sansa orient herself. His voice drifted down to her in fragments and she imagined that, to anyone observing them, it might have looked like they weren't talking at all. They were taking a meandering route back to the Red Keep. Sansa was amazed by how well Clegane knew the city. She'd never noticed various Gold Cloak outposts and certainly had no knowledge of which types of people frequented which wine-sinks. As they wound their way back up to the castle, Clegane said, "Look straight ahead." In the distance was a faint haze above the trees. "That's his camp."

  
Even from their higher elevation, it still seemed leagues away. Sansa stared, trying to imprint the precise location in her memory and knowing it was hopeless. Even if she one day managed to escape the city, she'd never be able to tell which trees were the right ones. Still, it was nice to see her brother's location, however unreachable. "Thank you," she murmured and she wondered if Clegane's elbows had hugged her a bit before urging Stranger to pick up his pace.


	4. Chapter 4

Warning: dub-con ahead

 

The pleasure of leaving the Red Keep was short-lived. Sansa told her father and Arya as precisely as she could where Robb was encamped, which was to say that there was smoke above some trees. Arya was ready to leave on the instant but their father cautioned against rash action. They would wait to see what happened before losing their tenuous status as valuable hostages.

 

Aside from her deferred hopes for escape, Sansa's life too soon returned to her usual routine. Clegane continued to ask what she'd done during the day and it saddened her to recount the dull sameness of her hours so, one night, when she was feeling particularly confined, she asked him about his day first.

 

He turned on to his side instead of remaining on his back, which was how they usually conducted their nightly conversations. “I guarded the king,” he answered.

 

“Oh.” Sansa supposed his days could be numbingly repetitive, too.

 

“There was a small council meeting. Joff wants to attack your brother and Stannis.”

 

Sansa turned on her side to face him. “Why?”

 

“Because he’s a fool.”

 

“I’m surprised you think so.”

 

“And why is that, little bird?”

 

“I - I suppose I never considered that you might think about what Joffrey does. I guess I assumed you only paid attention to his orders.”

 

“I listen to every word.”

 

“Will you tell me what was said?”

 

“Will you repeat it?”

 

“Of course not.”

 

Clegane ran his hand down her arm and entwined his fingers with hers. It made her heart patter but she allowed it. Joffrey hated her brother, Clegane told her, though he hated his uncle more. He took it as an affront that they would join together against him rather than recognizing it as strategy. His immaturity was goading him into an ill-conceived display of force. He promised to arm every peasant in King’s Landing and send them north to where the would-be usurpers were encamped and so make Castamere look like a tea party. Shame and dismemberment were the least of what awaited Robb and Stannis. Their heads would adorn the walls and their followers would be executed one by one.

 

Sansa shivered. She prayed that Robb would turn north and be safe, even if he took her only chance of rescue with him. “What would that mean for me?” she whispered.

 

Clegane pulled her into his chest. She didn’t resist, her mind far away. “Nothing.”

 

“Joffrey would never -”

 

“You are my wife.”

 

Sansa once again felt the separation, the trench, the gulf that now lay between her and the rest of her family. Winterfell had never felt farther away.

 

“I’ll keep you safe,” he added.

 

Part of her wanted to believe him. Part of her already did.

 

“You’re sworn to Joffrey.”

 

“I’m married to you.”

 

Sansa blushed and kept her head ducked below his chin. They _were_ married, in word if not in fact. She appreciated his kindness and honesty and, when he lowered his head and found her lips, she didn’t resist.

 

*

 

The next morning Clegane kissed her before he left. Sansa’s stomach clenched. _What if he’s expecting more now? I should never have kissed him._ But she had. And she couldn’t deny that it sent a tingle through her. _That’s only because you’ve barely been kissed before, and because he said he’d keep you safe._ The heat in her blood knew it for a lie, though. Ever since she’d realized that he’d liked her even before their betrothal, and since she’d reflected on his generally kind treatment of her, there had been a hum within her that looked for and recognized him. She could pick out the rattle of his armor or the resonance of his voice within a loud hall. His proximity awoke something in her that could no longer be quieted. Such feelings were not entirely welcome.

 

The following night, after Sansa had stolen surreptitious looks at Sandor while he bathed and they’d discussed the day’s events, he kissed her again. When his tongue prodded her lips and his hand settled on the plain of her belly, she turned away. Her gratitude for his kindness would not come at the cost of her maidenhead. Robb was inching closer and closer. Rescue might yet be possible.

 

Clegane pulled her back around, not ungently. “What are you doing?”

 

“Going to bed. Good night.” She made to turn on to her side again but he stopped her.

 

“You’re a tease.”

 

“I’m a maiden.”

 

“Only because I allow it,” he said angrily. “What do you think you’re doing, kissing me in the morning and turning me away at night?”

 

Sansa steeled her nerves. He’d know if she was lying. “I’m grateful for your protection but -”

 

“But not grateful enough to put up with my face, is that it?”

 

“No! It has nothing to do with your . . . the way you look.”

 

“Spare me your lies, girl. If I was the Knight of Flowers, you'd be moaning like a whore right now."

 

Sansa drew back in surprise. He glared at her and turned away. Sansa stared at his massive shoulder and wondered what had set him off.

 

The next night, Clegane came to their rooms drunker than she'd ever seen him. He didn't speak but the anger radiating off of him frightened her. To her relief, he fell into bed and began to snore loudly.

 

The following morning started with a crash and a curse as her husband knocked his light armor to the floor. The way he squinted in the light told Sansa he had a hangover of exceptional proportions. She got out of bed and helped him pick up his pauldrons, greaves, vambraces, and the various knives that had scattered across the floor. Instead of the thanks she expected and knew she deserved, he gave her a look and snatched a gauntlet out of her hand.

 

"Don't drink so much if you don't want to feel bad in the morning."

 

"You've turned into a nagging wife already," he said in a voice even rougher than usual. "That didn't take long."

 

"I'm not nagging. I'm merely suggesting -"

 

"You want a suggestion? Don't lay there like a fucking corpse when I kiss you."

 

For some reason, his words cut her to the quick. It had never once occurred to her that there was _technique_ involved, or that she would be criticized for hers. It embarrassed her.

 

"I watch that little fuck Joffrey all day. I don't need him here as well," Clegane continued, obviously in the mood to air his grievances.

 

Sansa didn't understand. "He's not here."

 

The Hound rose and towered over her. "You want to cry and look sad in court? Fine, but not here. You want to carry on some mummery that I beat you and rape you every night so Joffrey thinks he's punishing you and your father? Fine, but not here. You lie to them, not to me. I'm sick of it. If you can't stand the sight of me, say so and say it now. You liked my face well enough when I was protecting you from your king."

 

Sansa realized he must have been stewing over this all the previous day. "It's not your face," she said for what felt like the hundredth time.

 

"I told you I wouldn't hurt you and I haven't."

 

"I know."

 

"Then what are you afraid of? That you might enjoy it?”

 

“Enjoy it?”

 

“Yes. You do know how to enjoy things, don’t you?”

 

"I want to . . . want to." She couldn't be more honest than that.

 

Clegane's grey eyes held her gaze for a moment and then looked away. “You don’t know what you want.”

 

*

 

That night Sansa’s husband returned to their room quite sober. He said nothing until she stopped sewing and got into bed.

 

“What did you do today?” he asked stiffly.

 

Sansa recognized that he was trying to make amends for his rude behavior of the morning but wasn’t of a mind to make things easy for him. “I sewed.”

 

His arm slid around under the sheet until his hand found hers. “Your fingers must be sore if that’s all you did today.”

 

“I didn’t have many choices.”

 

“I could give you a choice.”

 

“Don’t be crude.”

 

“For fuck’s sake, Sansa.” He turned on his side and pulled her over to face him. “You’re my _wife_.” He leaned in and kissed her, silencing her protests by drawing his tongue over her lips. His hand raked through her hair as he kissed her harder, his mouth drawing hers open until his tongue rolled around hers. A current of tingles flooded her body but she gathered herself.

 

“Stop!”

 

Clegane groaned and sat up. He rubbed an eye with the heel of his hand. He stared at her for a long moment. “Go back to your father, girl,” he said tiredly. “Tell Joffrey I’m too cruel to you. Tell him I got you with child. Anything. Beg him to spare you another day of marriage to me.”

 

“No.” Sansa was more afraid than she’d ever been before in his company.

 

“No? That’s what you’ve been wanting. I won’t stop you.”

 

“No,” she said stubbornly. “Joffrey will kill my father.”

 

“Not if you offer yourself to him.” He shrugged. “Not right away.”

 

“That’s a horrible thing to suggest.”

 

“Yet I’m to sit around until my balls turn blue and drop off? Believe me, girl, if it’s between your father and my balls, he’s a dead man.”

 

“That’s not very nice.”

 

“Nice is not going to brothels because you prefer your wife. You make demands like a bloody queen so go act like a queen. You know how queens get what they want, don’t you? Spread your legs for Joffrey and let _him_ try to chisel through the ice. I have a better chance of melting the bloody Wall with my bare arse than I do of being what you want. So go. Go to Joffrey. I’ll back up whatever tale you tell him.”

 

Sansa clamped her jaw down to stop it from trembling. “The High Septon wouldn’t . . . _couldn’t_ grant us . . . I’m still your wife whether -”

 

“You’re more like a bloody live-in septa. The only singing you do is from hymnals and the only thing your tongue is good for is licking your damned embroidery thread.”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

“Stranger, Smith, and Crone,” he muttered. “You don’t know because you don’t _want_ to.” With that he flopped down on the mattress and jerked the sheets over his shoulder, leaving her to stare at his back.

  


*

 

Sansa was making another lap around the bailey, trying to let the sun warm her and wondering what to do about her husband, when an out-of-breath Arya came racing up to her.

 

“The Hound’s getting it from Joffrey,” she gasped.

 

“What? What do you mean?”

 

“He’s in trouble. In the throne room.”

 

“Why? He hasn’t -”

 

“He took you into the city.”

 

Sansa’s blood ran cold. “But that was -” How long had it been?

 

“Joffrey doesn’t care. Robb and Lord Stannis are just outside the city now. He’s accusing the Hound of trying to return you to our brother. The Hound’s denying it, of course, it would be stupid not to, but that weasel-faced Joffrey is just mad that he’s no match for Robb and -”

 

“Has he issued a punishment?”

 

“Just a warning. You know how Joffrey likes to parade the Hound around. He’d never dismiss him as his shield. But there were a lot of people there and Joffrey likes everyone to know he’s the king . . . I thought you should know. The Hound is likely to be in an even worse mood than usual.”

 

Sansa nodded. “Thank you for telling me.”

 

“Maybe you should stay with me and Father tonight.”

 

“No, I’ll be fine, thank you.”

 

Arya’s brows drew together. “Well, with any luck, the Hound will just drink himself to the floor.”

 

“Most likely,” Sansa answered sadly.

 

*

 

Joffrey’s dressing down of her husband was the talk of the castle. Still, she was surprised to find him in their room that afternoon. He was hunkered over their table, a flagon at his lips. He turned toward her and, just for a second, a look of hope crossed over his face before settling into his usual harsh expression. It was that look that moved her. She approached and laid a hand on his shoulder.

 

“I’m sorry. Joffrey was most unjust.”

 

He grunted but didn’t otherwise reply.

 

She stooped down and kissed him. He pulled away and took a drink instead. His rejection stung but, just as indignation began to swirl in her chest, she realized the hypocritical nature of her feelings. Why should he want her now, when kindness to her was the cause of his unwarranted and public setting down?

 

Sansa moved to the window and took up her sewing. She tried to be as still and silent as possible. Clegane polished off the flagon and left the room without so much as glancing at her.

 

*

 

Hours passed. The sun was sinking low in the sky when Sansa tossed her sewing aside and looked out the window. No one was out. She turned her attention to the room. It was neat and orderly and absolutely devoid of anything to do. What she first attributed to restlessness, she soon recognized as loneliness. Something inside her curled up at the thought that she actually missed Clegane. She denied it to herself but it was no good. She wondered where he was and what he was doing and if he was thinking of her. When it grew late, she wondered if he would return.

 

*

 

He did return, very late and very drunk. Sansa was already in bed but had lain awake waiting for him. He stumbled into the furniture getting undressed and groped his way around the room and under the covers. It was too dark to be sure but Sansa thought he turned and looked at her. Words deserted her so she inched over and laid a hand on his chest.

 

Faster than she would have thought possible, he rolled toward her, took her in his arms, and kissed her until he found her lips. His wine-soaked tongue pressed its way into her mouth as his leathery scars scraped against her cheek. Surprise had robbed Sansa of her breath and she had to turn away to gasp in some air. She was breathless again when he shoved her nightgown up to her neck. She knew he couldn’t see her but his fingertips skimming over her body made her feel more exposed than his gaze could have done. Worse, her body was unequivocally responding while her mind lagged behind, wondering if any of this was wise while Clegane palmed her breasts and murmured, “Gods,” before lashing her nipple with his tongue and drawing her flesh into his mouth. The sensation caused Sansa’s jaw to fall slack as her fingers curled into the sheets.

 

“You like that, little bird,” Clegane breathed against her breastbone as he trailed kisses down to her belly, the soft sweep of his hair tickling her.

 

Sansa’s thoughts couldn’t penetrate the fog his touch was causing. His speed and brazenness scared her even as her body relented to his onslaught. She was panting and panting and still couldn’t fill her lungs. Her smallclothes were gone in an instant and her mouth was trying to form the word “no” when a solitary stroke of his thumb over her woman’s place left her gaping. He slithered down the bed, took her hips in his hands, and gave a weird sort of _hic_.

 

“Damn me, drunk as a dog,” he mumbled.

 

Sansa pushed with her heels and tried to create some distance between them but his big hands held her fast. He began to lower his face between her legs but then groaned and pressed his sweaty brow hard against her inner thigh. “Fuck.”

 

He dipped down and Sansa tried to scramble away, thinking he meant to bite her. His tongue just grazed her and she squealed as he muttered, “Fuck me,” and struggled to his knees, bracing himself with one hand on the wall. A drop of sweat slid down the bridge of his nose and landed on Sansa’s belly. He swerved and caught the headboard and _hicced_ again.

 

“Are you going to be sick?” Sansa asked, horrified.

 

“Too much wine,” he groaned, gingerly lowering himself on to his back. “Be fine in a minute. Don’t go.”

 

Sansa stared as he gripped the headboard behind his pillow. She didn’t move for fear of making him ill. An indeterminate amount of time went by before she detected his even breathing. The sheet around him was soaked with wine-sweat.

  
Taking the coverlet and finding some spare bedding, Sansa made a nest for herself on the floor. Each time she closed her eyes, she felt Clegane’s hands and mouth on her body. It agitated her. It had been pleasing, troubling, confusing, and too much, too fast. Worse, or maybe better, she hadn’t touched him at all. Would he be angry about that tomorrow? She’d wanted him to stop but, now, apart and cooled by the night air, she found herself wondering what else he could do, and how it would feel, and if she had any power to elicit a response from him. Long before Sansa could make up her mind about any of it, morning came.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: possible dub-con ahead

Clegane sat at the table and spooned the broth Sansa had sent for into his mouth. Now and again he’d look at her and she’d pretend not to notice. He mopped up the last of the broth with a hunk of bread, chewed it slowly, cleared his throat, and said, “You’re still here.”

 

Sansa’s spine stiffened. “Yes.”

 

He rose from the table. “Not going to Joffrey?”

 

“No.”

 

He walked toward her. “Staying married to me?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Really married?”

 

“Yes.”

 

He bent down and kissed her. Sansa wrapped her trembling arms around his neck and kissed him back. Clegane gathered her up and carried her to the bed. “You’re sure?”

 

Sansa hesitated. She thought she’d made up her mind. It was not ladylike to admit she felt drawn to him or that she was curious about what he could teach her. There would be no going back and, though she was afraid, she nodded.

 

He chuckled. “Still a terrible liar.”

 

Fortunately for Sansa, Clegane’s hangover slowed him down considerably. He took his time nibbling at her lips, tracing over her skin with his fingertips, and divesting them both of most of their clothes. Sansa was rather embarrassed to have him see her but he gave her such a hungry look and savored her so thoroughly that she felt rather like the Maiden made real. It helped to have the distraction of Sandor’s body at hand, too. She’d grown up surrounded by warriors, by tall, muscled men whose bodies were honed and hardened by life in the north. Her husband made them look like reedy adolescents. The bulk of his muscles, the sheer breadth of his shoulders, the power evident in his forearms, all of it fascinated her, which amused and appealed to him.

 

“Go on. Take your look,” he said with a laugh, rolling off of her and squinting in the light. He brought his arm behind his head and closed his eyes with an air of satisfaction.

 

Sansa swept her gaze over his chiseled torso. From the neck down, he was like something from one of her illustrated songbooks. Bigger, yes, but rendered no less artfully. She returned her eyes to his face. Even the scars weren’t so bad, once you got used to them, and his eyes, which usually looked so angry, were capable of a soft, languid look. Sansa knew that look was for her alone and the knowledge made her heart pick up its pace.

 

“Enough looking. Put your hands on me,” he murmured, crawling back on top of her and sucking on her earlobe.

 

Sansa felt shy but she rested her hands on his shoulders and squeezed gently. They were huge. They were the size of other men’s shoulders with their armor _on_. “You’re so strong,” she observed mostly to herself. “How is it you’re so gentle with me?”

 

“I can be rough . . .”

 

Sansa blushed. “I wasn’t suggesting -”

 

His husky laugh told her she was being teased. Then another thought occurred to her. It was morning and he was still with her. “Shouldn’t you be on duty right now? If Joffrey -”

 

“No. I traded with Trant.”

 

“So you . . .”

 

“Have all day,” he finished, sliding lower down the bed.

 

*

 

Sansa soon learned that her husband could do wickedly sublime things with his fingers and tongue. It was an unexpected gift, this talent of his, and, after some initial awkwardness, one she was eager to accept and return.

 

That evening Sansa gave her husband a long, lingering kiss before he began his shift. He pressed her hard against him, molding his hands to her curves as they slid over her body. She felt too shy to say much and, after he left, spent the remainder of the night grinning until her cheeks hurt.

 

*

 

A new routine was established: Sansa and Sandor hurried through their evening meals and spent the nights tangled up in bed. She was still a maiden but the deficit of her carnal knowledge was so great that she didn’t want to hurry past anything.  

 

Seduction was an entirely new art to her. Whereas, before, she’d been limited to a shy smile or a look from beneath her eyelashes, now she was able to be more direct and follow through on previously innocent enticements. She quickly learned that Clegane liked to look, especially if he knew he’d soon be able to touch. Sansa had never brushed out her hair so slowly, turning her head this way and that, letting her fingers trail up her neck or allowing her gown to slip off her shoulder. His arousal thrilled her, which made her want to tease him more. Having a man in her thrall was a new kind of power, and being in his was an agreeable weakness, compensated for with his deft touch.

 

Better still, Sansa decided that she actually liked her husband. Clegane’s rough, angry, brash demeanor was left outside of their chamber. Inside he melted into an attentive husband with an insatiable appetite for pleasing his wife, so it was a shock when he came banging into their room one evening so suddenly that a scream gathered in Sansa’s throat and her sewing fell into her lap. “What is it? What’s happening?”

 

“Your brother.” The Hound’s mouth was twitching and his eyes were wide. He was filthy, covered in ash and smudged with soot, and an acrid odor blew in with him.

 

“What? What has he done?”

 

Clegane tore off his cloak, tunic, and breeches. “He’s incited a riot within the city is what he’s done.” Sansa only noticed the blood when he began to scrub it off.

 

“But I thought -”

 

“You thought what? That everyone in King’s Landing thinks the sun shines out of Joffrey’s arse? No, little bird, it seems your brother and Stannis have some supporters within the walls. I spent the past few hours in the thick of a mob.”

 

Sansa rose and drew nearer. “Are you hurt?” she asked, scanning him for injuries.

 

He cocked his head up to look at her. Battle lust was clear on his face and it checked her approach. He came to her, took her face in his hands, and kissed her. She took a step back but he walked with her, nipping at her until her calves struck the bed and she fell. He came down on top of her, his fingers digging into her upper arms.

 

“What happened?” she asked, hoping to break the intensity of his focus.

 

“Joffrey and Cersei were riding through the city. He wanted to show her the weapons he’s having made. A crowd formed. They started yelling, ‘Stannis! Stark! Stannis! Stark!’ he told her as his lips sucked at her throat, leaving faint bruises.

 

“Joffrey can’t have liked that. What did he do?” Sansa said anxiously.

 

“Told them they were all guilty of treason and would hang” His hands were all over her. “The crowd grew. They were yelling, throwing whatever they had. Someone threw mud at the queen.” He was tearing at her clothes, yanking her dress loose, and ripping her laces apart.

 

Sansa gasped.

 

“Tried to drive them off.” He shook his head. “Too many.” He let his weight rest on her as he pulled at his smallclothes. “They all had brooms and branches and things that would burn. They lit them, one after the other, until we were in a ring of fire.”

 

“Oh no,” Sansa murmured, knowing what that must have been like for him.

 

“One fool swung a torch at my horse. He lost an arm for it.” Clegane dragged himself over her, all hardness to her softness. “Little bird,” Sandor rumbled close to her ear. He nudged her legs apart with his knee.

 

“Are you hurt?” she asked again, as unable to imagine a single commoner capable of inflicting an injury upon him as she was capable of stopping him herself.

 

“They pulled Joff from his horse. Dragged him into a stable.” His manhood was prodding her. He gathered her wrists and pinned them above her head, his breaths short and choppy, his eyes wild. He furrowed his brow and kissed her frantically.

 

Things were moving faster than Sansa could process them, both politically and with Sandor’s sudden drive for her maidenhead.

 

With a gulp of air, he continued. “Cersei was screaming. Fucking Boros was useless. I had to cut through the crowd to get inside.”

 

Sansa’s flesh was stretching painfully. She gritted her teeth and tried to angle herself away but his weight had her trapped and he breathed, “Sansa. Yes,” into her ear.

 

“Then what happened?” she asked to distract herself.

 

“Then they threw a torch on the straw.”

 

Sansa made a sympathetic noise which turned into a grunt as her husband made his way inside her. He released her wrists and held her fast to his chest as his hips began to rock them back and forth.

 

In a strained voice, he continued. “It was like the seven hells in there. Orange heat. Black smoke. I had to break a beam to get out. Whole damn place collapsed into the street. Lit straw falling everywhere. Joffrey shrieking. Smallfolk yelling. Dragged the king into the street. Had to stamp out his burning cloak myself.”

 

The speed of his thrusts increased and he grunted and gasped as though trying to fuck away the nightmarish events of the day. Sansa wiggled her arms loose and wrapped them around him.

 

“Little bird,” he moaned.

 

“Sandor,” she answered. Her flesh was raw, her muscles were tense, but she held tight to him, not out of duty or fear but because he needed her and she wanted to be there for him.

 

He murmured her name again and again like a prayer until he stilled, grunted, thrust some more, and then stilled for good. He smoothed her hair back from her forehead and looked into her eyes. Sansa stared back. His features looked sated except for his eyes, which were uneasy.

 

Clegane rolled off of her onto his back, his manhood still firm and glistening with their combined moisture.

 

Sansa pulled the blanket up over her breasts, unsure of his mood or her feelings. It had all happened so fast. Sansa had always imagined the loss of her maiden’s gift would involve sweet wine, petal-strewn sheets, and declarations of love and devotion by her handsome, knightly husband as a harp was played somewhere within hearing. She’d done her duty by Sandor, comforted him when he was upset, the notion of which was still strange to her, but this sticky, sweaty maneuvering done to a recitation of the deeds of the repulsive Joffrey was more mess than magic. She hugged the blankets and lamented the disappointing ordinariness of the last thing she’d thought might really be like a song.

 

“What’s the matter, girl?”

 

Sansa didn’t want to insult him with the truth. Besides, the dampness between her legs was growing and felt like blood. “I think I’m bleeding.” She struggled to get up but a heavy hand on her shoulder pushed her back down.

 

“Stay here.” Clegane rose, crossed the room, and returned with a wet cloth.

 

Sansa dabbed at herself while Clegane made no effort to look away.

 

When she was done, he took the cloth from her, returned it to the wash basin, and got back in bed, pulling her so her back was against his belly. His arms encircled her and his breath warmed her ear. “Little bird?”

 

“Hm?”

 

He didn’t answer, just held her even tighter, his face pressed into the nape of her neck. Sansa could tell his mind was not at rest. “Are you hurt?” he eventually asked.

 

Sansa considered how she felt and concluded that something pleasant had ignited beneath the discomfort. “No,” she said.

 

“Then you’re ready?”

 

Sansa shouldn’t have been surprised, given his appetite for other things, but she was. “Ready? Now?”

 

“I want you again.”

 

“So soon?”

 

“Always.”

 

Slowly, gently, thoroughly, Clegane shared himself with her in all the ways the first time had been lacking. Making love together pleased Sansa much more than being made love to and the blissful sensations of joining with her husband eclipsed any remaining discomfort. Breathing heavily, they smiled at each other and Sansa felt very, truly happy.

 

*

 

The Hound’s knowledge of her felt like a secret. Everyone assumed she’d been deflowered on her wedding night but now that she was a maid no longer, she felt shy and protective of the truth. She could hardly look at Sandor Clegane without telltale heat blooming in her cheeks. She saw Loras Tyrell and his beautiful curls and was surprised by her complete absence of regret. Clegane was still the most frightening-looking man she’d ever seen but now he was something more. He was her husband in every sense of the word. The thought made her breath catch in her throat. The future she thought she’d have was gone yet the one she _would_ have was still unclear. Even if she was somehow able to slip Joffrey’s hold and get to Robb, she’d still be Lady Clegane, and part of her wanted to stay Lady Clegane. There was something challenging about Sandor. He might not always agree with her but he never dismissed her. With other men, she was a means to an end; with Sandor, she was valued for herself and not for her status or wealth. What Joffrey had intended as a punishment was an unexpected gift, even if it was one she might not be able to keep.

 

*

 

Sandor returned from his shift the next evening and said, “You have to leave the city tonight.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because war will break out tomorrow.”

 

“How could you know that?”

 

“Your brother and Stannis sent a messenger to Joffrey and said he has two days to surrender before they’ll remove him from their throne.” Clegane chuckled. “Joff didn’t like that.”

 

“Two days? Then why -”

 

“Because Joffrey will attack tomorrow. He’s falling right into their trap. They’re ready, he’s not, but he’s stupid enough to let an insult goad him into war.”

 

Sansa barely heard him. Her mind was spiraling out of control. “I have to tell Father and Arya.”

 

“Your father was in the hall. He heard the whole thing.”

 

“Do you know if he -”

 

“I’m not heading up a parade. I can get you out of the city. Your father and sister will have to fend for themselves.”

 

Sansa stared at him for a moment before dashing out of the room. She ran through the halls and burst through the door of her former suite.

 

“And Sandor said he could get me out of the city,” she concluded breathlessly, “but you have to leave, too! You must!”

 

“How does Clegane suggest you leave the city?”

 

“On the back of my horse,” said a rough voice in the doorway.

 

Sansa spun around. “They have to come, too.”

 

“Not with us. I’m risking enough getting you out of here.”

 

“Sansa, are you sure -”

 

 _Not this again._   Sansa had told her father that Clegane treated her kindly but such assertions were always met with a dubious look. “Father! I’ve told you -”

 

Ned held up a hand. “Which gate are you using?” he asked, looking tired.

 

Clegane eyed him suspiciously but said, “The Iron Gate.”

 

“We’ll take the Dragon Gate.”

 

Clegane nodded his assent.

 

“Will we have trouble getting out?” Arya wanted to know.

 

“Not tonight. Joffrey’s assembling his men. Only the regular guard is on the walls.”

 

“It’s possible we could negotiate -” her father began.

 

“No. She doesn’t belong here,” Clegane answered with a nod towards Sansa.

 

“None of us do,” Sansa said. “We all belong in the north.”

 

*

 

“This isn’t the Iron Gate.”

 

“I know, little bird.”

 

“But you said -”

 

“I don’t trust your father any more than he trusts me. He still has some loyal men at his command. They might all be on the road waiting to slash my throat and grab you.”

 

“No -”

 

“Shhh.”

 

Sansa closed her mouth. They were nearly to the Old Gate. The gold cloaks were questioning people at random and Sansa was surprised by just how many people were out. The streets were far from thronged but they weren’t deserted, either. “Where is everyone going?” she whispered to Sandor.

 

They were lingering, waiting for something to happen that would allow them to slip by unobserved. “Getting out. Sneaking in. Trying to be on the side they think will win.”

 

A few moments later an argument broke out between some men and Sandor edged Stranger through the gate. The people who’d slinked by with them disappeared into the darkness.

 

It felt like forever as they made their way in no direction that was discernible to Sansa. Sandor returned to the saddle and hours could have passed until a disembodied voice called out to them.

 

Sandor nudged her. “I’m Sansa Stark,” she called. “My companion and I wish to see Lord Robb.”

 

“Sansa Stark, eh?”

 

A tinder-strike scratched a tiny spark into existence. It rapidly caught the torch of a man Sansa hadn’t been able to see or hear at all. She lowered her hood as the flame was shoved in her face.

 

“And who’s that with you?”

 

“This is Sandor Clegane. He has rescued me.”

 

“Married you, from what we heard.”

 

“That, too. Now, if you would be so kind . . .”

 

The man seemed unsure. “He’s a Lannister dog. No Lannister dogs in Lord Robb’s camp. _You_ can come with me.”

 

Sansa could feel Sandor reaching for his sword so she reached out and snatched the man’s torch. “ _You_  can come with _us_.” The man goggled up at Sansa. “If you would be so kind,” she repeated.

 

Sandor’s laugh made Sansa smile. It was the first time she’d relaxed all evening. Still, they were by no means safe. After a few minutes of ambling through the dark, she began to make conversation with the man and slowly drew him out. He was from a small village, though it was a place Sansa had once passed through. By the time Robb’s camp finally came into view, Sansa knew the names of his wife, children, and dogs and was agreeing with him on the deliciousness of a variety of northern wine.

 

“At bloody last,” Sandor muttered behind her when the man called out to his companions and announced their arrival.

 

A ripple went through the camp. To be this close, so nearly there, made Sansa as taut as a bowstring. She turned this way and that, looking for Robb, her father, and Arya. Campfires burned everywhere and the smoke dried out her eyes.

 

Bustle ahead drew her notice and she gasped when her brother ducked out of a tent. Her father and sister followed. Sansa wilted with relief.

 

Sandor helped her down from his horse and she threw herself into her brother’s arms. Robb looked like a man now. Respect and deference were evident in those around him. “When can we leave? Please say now. I don’t want to be here another moment!”

 

Robb hugged her and smiled down at her. “I’m glad you’re safe, Sansa.”

 

“It was all Sandor’s doing. We could never have managed it without him.”

 

“I thank you for returning my family to me, Clegane,” Robb said. “I’ll see to it you’re amply rewarded and we’ll find a way to get you back inside the city.”

 

“No!” Sansa cried. “He’s coming with us.”

 

“I am?” Clegane rasped.

 

“He is?” Robb’s eyes slid over to their father.

 

Sansa looked at all of them with disbelief. “Of course he is. He’s my husband!”

 

*

 

Epilogue

 

The long trip to Winterfell was nearly over. The Battle for King’s Landing, as it was coming to be known, had been bloody but brief. One of Joffrey’s commanders, ignoring the orders of his battle-green king, had seen an opportunity to outflank Lord Stannis and had nearly gained a victory by doing so. Robb, Sansa was proud to relate to anyone who would listen, had seen the dividing of his ally’s forces and had sent his own men to assist. It was with little grace that Lord Stannis granted northern independence as recompense for winning King’s Landing but he grimly acknowledged that he would have nothing to grant at all if not for Robb. A smaller kingdom was still a kingdom, the north was a separate but supportive region, and anything was better than Dragonstone.

 

Sandor Clegane fought valiantly from the rear guard. Sansa would not hear of his being placed in the vanguard, as her father had suggested. Clegane’s new loyalty to the north was less in doubt after the battle, and so was his loyalty to his wife as he shunned camp followers and soldiers alike to sit quietly by the fire at Sansa’s side night after night.

 

And now they were within half a day’s ride to Winterfell.

 

“I should take you beyond the Wall. You look more like a wildling than a northerner,” Clegane said, drawing a lock of her hair over her shoulder.

 

Sansa grinned. “You won’t say that after I’ve had a proper bath and, anyway, there’s somewhere I want to take  _you_.”

 

“Aye, it’s the same place I want to take you, no doubt.”

 

Sansa turned to give her husband a mock admonishing look, though she, too, was more than ready for some privacy. “No, I want to take you to the godswood, to the heart tree, so we can marry again in the northern tradition. That is, if you can be prevailed upon to marry me again,” she added with a teasing smile.

 

Clegane grinned and pulled her close as his horse shot forward, churning up dust and outstripping their companions.

 


End file.
